Libertarians From The United States

"Cheney shot his buddy in the face. Clinton shot his intern in the face."

"I like to hunt. We went to a nuclear power plant and hunted in the woods next to it. I got a 34-point rabbit in there. We always go at night. It's easier. All the critters glow in the dark out there."

"Had a buddy of mine caught a rainbow trout, and threw it back. He said he didn't want a gay fish."

"If you're in a Gay Mafia and you get whacked, is that good or bad? [high-pitched voice] Say hello to my little friend."

"You know, you can tell the difference between a terrorist and a toddler. On a terrorist, the diaper is gonna be on the head, all right? That's how you can tell the difference. [very loud applause] It's upsetting. Unbelievable. They got absolutely nothing in common except both diapers are full of crap."

"I was madder than a Keebler elf getting demoted to fudge-packer."

"You ever go eat breakfast at Denny's, and then go to the toilet and sit in there so long you gotta order lunch from the stool? You ever do that? Now I know why they call it the Grand Slam."

"Good Lord, I went in for a check up the other day and the doctor said "You need to lay off eggs." I go "Is my cholesterol bad?" He said "No, your farts are killing everybody in this room.""

"Did you know that when a baby poops its diaper, you're not supposed to hit him with a rolled up newspaper?"

"She was worried about childbirth too cause she's little, you know. She's all scared. She's like, "When I have this kid, I want to be knocked out and unconscious." And I'm like "That's how ya were when you got pregnant!" That's full circle, right there! I did feel bad. That's tough. I'm tellin' ya. I felt horrible for her. Just pushing, and sweating, and screaming at the top of her lungs, and pushing and sweating, biting down on a stick...Ugh! Now she knows how I feel after a couple of Hot Pockets. You ever eat them Hot Pockets? Good Lord! I was backed up like a urinal on Saint Patrick's Day after eating them damn things. It was embarrassing. She's in the bed, giving b-[Grunting] I'm on the toilet next to her, [grunting] You know? I'm like "I need another Epidural in here if you got one!""

"At first I didn't even realize she was pregnant. I kinda gotten used to her throwing up every time we had sex..."

"You can always tell when gas is expensive. You always see street gangs doing walk-bys."

"Them [gas] prices are higher than a bus load of Mexicans at the Los Lobos concert."

"I was madder than a quadriplegic with a stack of scratch-off tickets, I'll tell you what."

"I was madder than a pervert with palsy trying to open up a condom wrapper, I'll tell you what."

"My mom went to that same doctor and got a butt lift. It's a little too lifted, I think, alright. Now every time she farts only dogs can hear it."

"I had a buddy of mine call up the other day, all upset 'cause he slept with his third cousin. And I'm like, "Man, if it upsets you that much, quit countin' them!""

"[M]y buddy Ron (Tater Salad) White talks about drinking my dip cup accidentally to swallow some aspirin. I was there when it happened and laughed my ass off. Was he amused? Of course not, but since it wasn't me drinkin' week-old Skoal spit it was downright comical! (p. 230)."

"Have you noticed lately how video games are getting way more sexually explicit and violent? I really gotta buy me one of them games! (p. 197)."

"[In reference to Playstation Football] Here's an idea! Why don't they make a button that says frickin' "pass"!"

"I got so pissed I took a little poll to see if anyone was sick of gettin' taxed as much as I am. I called 100 people one night and here's the results: everyone I polled said, "You dumb ass, it's three o'clock in the morning!" (p. 131)."

"I went to the Talladega 500 with a girl I had just met. She was very sweet with childlike qualities. No titties! (p. 113)."

"Actually, you can make pretty good cash on stage without being a comedian or a stripper. My brother once won a talent contest by fartin' the song "Dixie" through an oil funnel. He not only took home 500 bucks, he got to meet Regis after the show. Who says dreams don't come true? (p. 11)."

"A great-great grandpa (there might be another great in there, I'm not sure) offered a gun and horse to anyone that would join the Confederacy in '64. Who cares if it was 1964. Give the guy a break. He had Alzheimer's and thought he was Jefferson Davis. (p. 5)."

"I used to be a bitch. I met her at Hooters. She didn't have big boobs, but she could turn her head in a circle just like an owl. (p. 2)."

"(intro) Well, here we go. This is the first book I've written since 1975, when I was in the 7th grade and wrote Boogers Are Good Eatin. (p. 1)."

"Boy I tell you what, if I were a girl, I'd never shave! I'd look like I'm smuggling around Chewbacca in my underbritches!"

"That was scarier than Richard Simmons chasin' after you with a box of rubbers!"

"Oh like you never did that before! Every man - every man has done this! Just tuck your weiner between your legs, run around your house, lookit at yourself in the mirror, and say, "Oh, hey there, I'm Roseanne!" You know, like on the Rosie O'Fatass show."

"This lady's suin' everybody in the whole friggin' county! She's like-- she's like, "My husband got his leg bit by a shark and no one jumped in and saved him!" No shit, lady! It's a friggin' shark! Get off your fat ass and save him! That's jus' like asking a retard to go out and beat up Jackie Chan! Well, the waterhead's gonna get his ass kicked! I tell ya, put that shark out in the parking lot of Walmart, I'll kick the shit outa him! I'll beat him silly all day long!"

"The business of a novelist is, in my opinion, to create characters first and foremost, and then to set them in the snarl of the human currents of his time, so that there results an accurate permanent record of a phase of history."

"In The 42nd Parallel John Dos Passos traced the dazzling career of Keith and United Fruit: “In Europe and the United States people had started to eat bananas, so they cut down the jungles through Central America to plant bananas, and built railroads to haul the bananas, and every year more steamboats of the Great White Fleet steamed north loaded with bananas, and that is the history of the American empire in the Caribbean, and the Panama canal and the future Nicaragua canal and the marines and the battleships and the bayonets.”"

"All right we are two nations."

"The Body of an American, **1919* [1932]"

"How did they pick John Doe?"

"He is walking up an incline. There are tracks below him and the slow clatter of a freight, the hiss of an engine. At the top of a hill he stops to look back. He can see nothing but fog spaced with a file of blurred archlights. Then he walks on, taking pleasure in breathing, in the beat of his blood, in the tread of his feet on the pavement, between rows of otherworldly frame houses. Gradually the fog thins, a morning pearliness is seeping in from somewhere. Sunrise finds him walking along a cement road between dumping grounds full of smoking rubbishpiles. The sun shines redly through the mist on rusty donkey-engines, skeleton trucks, wishbones of Fords, shapeless masses of corroding metal. Jimmy walks fast to get out of the smell. He is hungry; his shoes are beginning to raise blisters on his big toes. At a cross-road where the warning light still winks and winks, is a gasoline station, opposite it the Lightning Bug lunchwagon. Carefully he spends his last quarter on breakfast. That leaves him three cents for good luck, or bad luck for that matter. A huge furniture truck, shiny and yellow, has drawn up outside. "Say will you give me a lift?" he asks the redhaired man at the wheel. "How fur ye goin?" "I dunno. . . . Pretty far." (pp. 403-404)"

"Before the ferry leaves a horse and wagon comes aboard, a brokendown springwagon loaded with flowers, driven by a little brown man with high cheekbones. Jimmy Herf walks around it; behind the drooping horse with haunches like a hatrack the little warped wagon is unexpectedly merry, stacked with pots of scarlet and pink geraniums, carnations, alyssum, forced roses, blue lobelia. A rich smell of maytime earth comes from it, of wet flowerpots and greenhouses. The driver sits hunched with his hat over his eyes. Jimmy has an impulse to ask him where he is going with all of those flowers, but he stifles it. (p. 403)"

"And he walks round blocks and blocks looking for the door of the humming tinsel windowed skyscraper, round blocks and blocks and still no door. Every time he closes his eyes the dream has hold of him, every time he stops arguing audibly with himself in pompous reasonable phrases the dream has hold of him. Young man to save your sanity you've got to do one of two things... Please mister where's the door to the building? Round the block? Just round the block... one of two unalienable alternatives: go away in a dirty soft shirt or stay in a clean Arrow collar. But what's the use of spending your whole life fleeing the City of Destruction? What about your unalienable right, Thirteen Provinces? His mind unreeling phrases, he walks on doggedly. There's nowhere in particular he wants to go. If only I still had faith in words. (pp. 365-366)"

"Pursuit of happiness, unalienable pursuit... right to life liberty and... A black moonless night; Jimmy Herf is walking alone up South Street. Behind the wharfhouses ships raise shadowy skeletons against the night. "By Jesus I admit I'm stumped," he says aloud. All these April nights combing the streets alone a skyscraper has obsessed him, a grooved building jutting up with uncountable bright windows falling onto him out of a scudding sky. Typewriters rain continual nickelplated confetti in his ears. (p. 365)"

"With a long slow stride, limping a little from his blistered feet, Bud walked down Broadway, past empty lots where tin cans glittered among grass and sumach bushes and ragweed, between ranks of billboards and Bull Durham signs, past shanties and abandoned squatters’ shacks, past gulches heaped with wheelscarred rubbishpiles where dumpcarts were dumping ashes and clinkers, past knobs of gray outcrop where steamdrills continually tapped and nibbled, past excavations out of which wagons full of rock and clay toiled up plank roads to the street, until he was walking on new sidewalks along a row of yellow brick apartment houses, looking in the windows of grocery stores, Chinese laundries, lunchrooms, flower and vegetable shops, tailors’, delicatessens. (pp. 23-24)"

"[Hemingway] always used to bawl me out for including so much topical stuff. He always claimed that was a great mistake, that in fifty years nobody would understand. He may have been right; it's getting to be true."

"I think the satirist is always basically optimistic. The satirist's complaint about society is always that it doesn't measure up to a fairly high ideal he has. I think that even the bitterest satirist, even a man like Swift, was probably rather an optimist at heart."

"For something like forty years I've been getting various sorts of narratives off my chest without being able to hit upon a classification for them. There's something dreary to me about the publisher's arbitrary division of every word written for publication into fiction and nonfiction. My writing has a most irritating way of being difficult to classify in either category. At times I would find it hard to tell you whether the stuff is prose or verse. Gradually I've come up with the tag: contemporary chronicle."

"If there is a special Hell for writers it would be in the forced contemplation of their own works, with all the misconceptions, the omissions, the failures that any finished work of art implies."

"There are too many "creative writing" courses and seminars, in which young writers are constantly being taught to rewrite the previous generation. They should be experimenting on their own. Every writer faces different problems which he must solve for himself."

"Great works of the imagination are not produced quickly nor do they take quick effect on the popular mind."

"There is a part of me in every character, naturally. That's why novelists rarely write good autobiographies. You start one and it becomes another novel - bound to."

"A satirist is a man whose flesh creeps so at the ugly and the savage and the incongruous aspects of society that he has to express them as brutally and nakedly as possible to get relief."

"In the last twenty-five years a change has come over the visual habits of Americans . . . From being a wordminded people we are becoming an eyeminded people."

"Walt Whitman's a hell of a lot more revolutionary than any Russian poet I've ever heard of."